Advent

I found the tracks
in the deep snow
between the trees.

In spite of facts
we did not know,
but prophet sees.

No one answers
as we waited
to feast or drink.

Watching dancers
breathless, baited
to float or sink.

Back surrounded
at the table,
a baby cries.

All dumbfounded:
not a fable.
Belief defies.


________________________________________________________________________________

This poem was written in response to this week's The Speakeasy prompt.  The first line and picture above were given as inspiration to write fiction or poetry.  This is my first poetic entry.  Constructive criticism appreciated.  Click on the button below to read the other fabulous writers who are hanging out there this time around.

.

She Shook My Hand

Peas.  I was feeding him peas.  Paw prints.  There were blue paw prints on his bib.  The rest was a blur.  A blur of brown sweaters dotted with dancing glasses filled deep with red wine.  The house was warm, cozy, I guess, and swimming in a din I did not discern.  All I could see was my very young son in a very old high chair eating chunky baby food.  All I could hear was everyone else enjoying themselves.

"Shaun and his new girlfriend are here."  My husband's voice snapped my glazed eyes into focus and I turned my head toward him.  He looked so good in a fresh cranberry pullover and dark blue jeans.  I needed to go shopping.  I had nothing nice to wear.

I returned my attention to the pureed peas.  My cousin always had someone new to show off during the holidays.  I was not particularly amused and I pretended my interest was not piqued.  When they finally entered the kitchen for introductions, I leaned back in my chair, crossed my legs and casually waved the baby spoon.   

"Hi, I'm Lindsey!" She was impossibly tiny and tan, busty and blonde.

"Hi."  My eyes met hers.  They were blue, too.

After a rush of pleasantries flush with compliments, the air settled and I could smell the peas, again.  My husband leaned in close and whispered, "What was her name?"

"I already forget.  It's not like we will need to remember.  He'll bring someone else to Christmas."

* * * * *

Peaches.  I was feeding him peaches.  Snowflakes.  There were gray snowflakes on his bib.  I was sitting near the radiator and could feel both its warmth and the draft from the window.  My hands were cold.  The radio had just begun to play "White Christmas" when the phone rang.  It was my dad.  

"Sweetie, I have some terrible news.  Shaun and Lindsey were in a car accident."

"Lindsey?"

"Shaun's new girlfriend.  You met her on Thanksgiving."  My dad paused, probably displeased.

"I remember her, of course."

"Shaun is fine, well, he is not hurt, but Lindsey...they flew Lindsey to Shock Trauma.  She is in a coma."

My mind reeled in rewind, replaying that one moment I met her.  Her hair was in a bun.  She put her arm around my cousin.  She kissed my baby on the head.  She shook my hand.  She smiled.  Her eyes were blue.

"They were on their way to Aunt Sherry's for dinner or something.  It was last night, when it was raining.  Shaun was driving his truck.  It happened on Highland Parkway and Front Street."

I couldn't process what he was saying.  I shook my head to make sense of the words.  He was driving.  She might die.  But, I would never forget Lindsey's name now.

"Where?"

"On Highland, in front of the Dunkin' Donuts."

From that day forward, every time I drove past that street corner, I thought of her.

__________________________________________________________________________________

This piece is a work of fiction loosely based on a true story and written in response to a weekly writing prompt.  Four and a half years ago, my cousin and his new girlfriend were in a car accident.  The real life Lindsey is alive and well, but I am unclear how well she is.  All I know was that her head injury was severe and her recovery process long.  She and my cousin did not remain together.

Oh, The Places You'll Go

She sank into the depths of her memories.  Warm, salty air filled her lungs.  Emily savored the freedom she felt in those deep breaths.  The ocean waves sprayed her with blessings from beyond as her long dark hair danced upon her shoulders.  From the tops of these cliffs she could see for miles.

Emily cocked her head and smiled.  "Hey babe, remember when we were in Hawaii and we watched the sunset standing out on those large rocks?"

"Nope."

"Oh come on, yes you do.  We were standing up above the water, but the waves would still splash us a bit."  Emily dropped her arms to her sides and wiggled her fingers.

"I remember watching the sunset from the marina.  Oh man, and we saw that one yacht called The Codfather?  Remember that?  It was waving an Italian flag and everything."

Emily remembered the marina.  And the yacht.  Friends they stayed with in Honolulu had a boat and the views from the docks were lovely.  But she was somewhere else.

"No, that's not what I am picturing in my mind.  There were definitely cliffs and dramatic waves and no one else around.  It was peaceful, but I recall being a bit afraid.  Maybe I'm thinking about something from our trip to California to see Julie?"

Julie loved hiking and exploring.  Clearly this would have been the type of adventure her sister-in-law would have taken them on.

"I really don't think so, hon.  I would definitely have pictures of that."

Emily knew he was right.  In fact, she had twisted her ankle playing tennis their first day at Julie's and spent the remainder of the visit poolside.  It was fantastic, but incomparable to the thrilling terrain she could not shake.  

"Gah!  I feel like I'm going crazy.  It's so vivid.  How can I not place it?  What could I possibly be thinking of?"

"I don't know, Em.  Could it be someplace you went as a kid?"

Emily furrowed her brow and grimaced, "Right, like my family would go somewhere you had to schlep up rocks?  Puh-lease we went to the Jersey Shore every summer and you know it."

"Well, of course I know it.  I'm just trying to help.  Hey, maybe you're remembering a dream you had?

And then as certainly as it felt out of reach, it all came rushing back.  It hadn't been a dream, but a construction of her imagination nonetheless.  The echo of the caves, the insecurity of the coves, the rough feel of the canoes, even the smell of the wild dogs.  And while Karana eventually leaves the island in the book, Emily had kept her there in her mind.  At last, she knew where she was and she was so happy to have returned to the Island of the Blue Dolphins.

_________________________________________________________________________________

This work is a piece of fiction written in response to a weekly prompt.  Click on the button below to read the prompt and the other awesome writers who hang out there.  Or, better yet, join us at the best gin joint on the web.
  

Sibling Rivalry

Something between the rocks glinted in the morning sunshine.  Danny impulsively jabbed at the mystery object with the scuffed toe of his navy blue sneaker.  In doing so, he discovered it was merely a small silver push pin, no doubt a fallen soldier from the telephone pole that stood tall at the end of his gravel driveway.  Perhaps the lost kitten had been found, or the yard sale a success.  Either way, the push pin's job was complete for now.  Danny plucked it up and absentmindedly put it in the pocket of his zip-up hoodie.  He had decided what to do.

"Mom!" he yelled toward the front of his house, "I'm going out on my bike!"

"Ok, sweetie.  But be back by lunch!  Your brothers need milk."

With his hands already on the handlebars, Danny hung his head in defeat and sighed.  "You want me to pick up milk?"

"Yeah.  I'll pay you back."

Danny settled onto the seat of his bike after a few initial pumps of the pedals.  The cool, autumn air tousled his hair and calmly encouraged him.  He would stop at the store on his way home, no big deal.  He had plenty of time.  He flew past the school and made a wide turn onto Walnut.  Even his lanky legs knew what he had to focus on first.  After years of churning turmoil, today was the day.  Danny Ellis was going to tell Katie Evans that he liked her.

He had ridden to her house countless times before, mostly because he couldn't think of anywhere else to ride.  One time, he offered to come to her house to work on a school project.  They had sat close together on the bench at her kitchen table and written a play about photosynthesis.  He played the plant.  She was the light.

Another time, her parents had employed him to take care of their cat while they were away over the summer.  He got to ride to her house almost everyday.  He ran his fingers over her furniture, smelled the soap at her sink, stood in her room, laid on her bed.  He would never forget those few weeks.

Danny parked his bike on the sidewalk and leaped up the now familiar front steps.  He knocked on the door and waited, nervously working his fingers.  The snapping sounds he made bounced around the large, covered porch where he had once taken shelter from a sudden rain shower.

"Oh, hey Danny.  Are you looking for Shaun?"  Katie's dad pushed up the sleeves on his chocolate brown sweater as he reached to open the screen door.  "Wanna come in?"

Danny looked at his sneakers and then back up.  Cracking his knuckled he replied, "My brother?  Shaun is here?"

"Well, actually he and Katie are out on a walk together, but I bet they'll be back soon."

Danny's mind reeled, but he finally managed to mumble, "Uh, thank you.  I, uh, have to go to the store for my mom."

"Ok, bud.  You take care.  See ya around."

As Mr. Evans turned to shut the door, the cat scurried up to Danny, rubbed herself against his corduroys and then meandered over to a bike parked on the porch.  Shaun's bike.  Focused as he was, Danny had overlooked it before, but there it stood.  It had gotten here first.  Danny buried his hands into the pockets of his zip-up hoodie.  He had decided what to do.

He jammed the push pin right into the tire of his brother's bike.  Five times.  One for every brother he had.


_________________________________________________________________________________

This piece is a work of fiction inspired by a weekly prompt.  Click on the button below to read the prompt and the other amazing writers who post flash fiction and poetry there.
The Speakeasy is open...

Unacceptable

I anxiously bounced my legs in unison, the toe of my right shoe firmly planted in a white square of linoleum, my left in a square of black.  The clock above the ice box ticked at me, its face scowling 8:33.  Father's Saturday paper was sprawled over our narrow breakfast table, leaving only enough room for his favorite mug.  The rest of the dishes had long been cleared.  Mother and Betty stood side by side at the sink.

"Junior!" Father bellowed, "For the last time, you're going to shake the house down. Here, read the Sports section."  He pointed to its place on the table without looking up, licked his index finger and forwarded his own progress.

"Dad, I have a ball game at nine.  I'm late for warm-ups."

"Son, you may be excused when everyone is finished."

While drying her hands on a striped dish towel, Betty turned to look at me.  She mouthed the words, "I'm sorry," folded the towel and turned her gaze to the counter where the painted, metal file box still sat.  Its gold padlock now secured nothing, but a bitter emptiness.

* * * * *

While we were eating breakfast, the letter was delivered.  Mr. Booth brought it over well before the postman usually arrived.  Betty always got the mail on her way in from school, but this particular piece must have gotten lost.  The familiar slap of the back door screen announced our neighbor. 

"Good morning, folks."  Mr. Booth tipped his wide-brimmed white straw hat at Mother and Betty and patted my back.  

"'Morning, Tom.  What do you have there?"  Father asked with a smile.

"This letter was delivered to our home by mistake.  It fell right out of Marie's LIFE magazine."

Father casually extended his hand to relieve Mr. Booth of the letter, but he turned to Betty.  "It's for you, young lady.  It's from Smith College and it feels promisingly hefty."  Mr. Booth exaggerated the weight of the letter in his hands and presented it to Betty with a bow.  

Slamming his large palms down on the Formica, Father exploded, "Elizabeth Jane Murphy!  No daughter of mine is going to waste precious time and money going to college.  We've discussed this to death.  Damn it, Betty.  Give me that letter!"  He lunged toward her knocking his chair to the floor.

"Fine!  Take it!"  Betty's bright red face seethed with anger.  "I already have acceptances from Vassar, Barnard, Bryn Mawr and Wellesley.  I'm going to college, Daddy!  You can't tell me what to do."

"The hell I can't!"  Father screamed as he began to throw open drawers and cabinets.  "Where are the letters?  Where are they!?!"  He was up in Betty's room before Mr. Booth and I reached the gate at the end of the sun dappled yard. 

Looking back toward our house as I walked slowly to school, I saw a thin, twisted line of gray smoke escaping from the chimney.  "I'm sorry, Betty," I whispered.


 __________________________________________________________________________________

This piece is a work of fiction and was inspired by this week's the speakeasy writing prompt.  Click on the button below to read the prompt and the other beautiful writers who hang out there.  Thanks!   

On Air

It was impossible.  It had to be.  Blacksmiths don’t even exist anymore, do they?  But, there it was on the teleprompter as clear as black and white.  And since it was on the teleprompter, I read the story:

  

“In a piece of shocking news, authorities on the Eastern Shore have reported that 23-year-old Baltimore native, Jonathan Rogers has been found dead near his workshop in Centerville.  Rogers was allegedly crushed by his horse while engaged in a sexual act with the animal.  Rogers, a professional blacksmith, provided iron working services for many of the farmers in the area.  His exact cause of death is still under investigation.

Huh.  Well.  And now, here’s Stan Santoni with this week’s weather forecast.  Take it away Stan.”

As I shuffled and organized the papers on the expansive desk in front of me, I turned to my co-anchor, Hank, and whispered to him while elbowing his arm, “What a way to go, right?”

Hank and I had been working together side by side on the evening newscasts for nearly 12 years.  Every day we joked together off camera about the ridiculousness of the news while grateful it gave us a name and a face.  Waiting for his always quick wit, I leaned back in my swivel chair to eye him.  In my periphery, Stan motioned in front of the big green screen that most likely pictured a map of Maryland for the viewers at home.

Hank leaned in close, his strong, low voice wavering, “That was my sister’s kid.”  He paused.  “Her only child.  My nephew, my godson.”

“Oh, Christ.  Hank, I’m sorry.”  An unfamiliar mix of emotions rushed through my body.  This was not news.  This was not public information.  This was the world on its head.  This was personal pain.  And I decided to hell with it all.

“I’m not going to read that story again next hour.  More information will probably come in and they’ll add it to the script, but I’m not going to read it.”

“But Grace, what are you going to do?  What about Pete?”  Hank began to prepare his appearance for the cameras that were headed our way. 

  

“Oh, screw Pete.  He’s just my boss.  You’re family.  I am not going to splash your stuff all over the screen.  It’s just a few seconds.  I’ll fake a coughing fit or something.  I am a professional.”  I comically adjusted my glasses and smoothed down my blouse.  

“You’re a piece of work, Grace.  You really are.  And I love you for it.”

“I love you, too.”  

___________________________________________________________________________________
This piece is a work of fiction and was inspired by this week's the speakeasy writing prompt.  For the challenge we had to (in under 500 words) use the first line, "It was impossible" and refer, in some way, to the photo above.  Click on the button below to read the prompt and the other beautiful writers who hang out there.  Thanks! 

Under the Overpass

A flash sparked across the sky as the train's wheels wailed overhead.  Shannon braced herself against the wind and the noise, hugging her maroon corduroy blazer tight.  Waiting under a bridge on the other side of town after dark was no picnic.  Overnight, or so it seemed to Shannon, her entire life had become an endless reel of scenes just like this.  And it was beginning to feel dangerous.  

From deeper under the overpass, Shannon heard a subtle rustle.  She snapped her head in that direction and squinted her eyes, scanning the area.  Her only source of light was a blinding spot shining from the deserted parking lot across the street.  And then he came into view.

It was not who Shannon expected.  Her breath caught in her throat and she clenched her fist to her gut.  Adrenaline flooded her system "Wh-who's there?" she stammered, starting to slink behind a concrete pillar.  

"Hi there!  Welcome.  I'm Dan."

Dan's genuine tone instantly put out the fire burning in her chest.  Her confusion at his response encouraged her to inquire, "Welcome where?"

"Welcome to my home, darling."  Dan gestured at the illuminated area before them and the small nook from whence he emerged.  Shannon imagined that was some sort of bedroom, if this was really this guy's home.  He was probably just out of his mind.

"What brings you to this hairy neck of the woods?" Dan asked with concern in his clear green eyes.

"Oh, I'm just waiting for someone."  Shannon kicked the gravel at her feet.  "I didn't know anyone lived here."

"Here, why don't you have a seat while you wait?"  Dan brushed off the top of a cinder block.  "Do you have a match?"

Shannon audibly exhaled.  Hopefully Dan would offer her a cigarette, too.  "I do, actually."  She rummaged around in her bag. 

"Great!  Now we can have a fire.  It’s getting chilly."  Dan proceeded to toss one of the lit sticks into a metal barrel, causing its contents to ignite and create a beautiful bounty of warmth.

Not knowing what else to do or say, Shannon accepted the seat Dan offered.  He quickly plopped down next to her on his own cinder block seat.  Shaking her crossed legs, Shannon looked around a bit anxious, but no one else was there.  "So, do you ever think of living somewhere real?"

"This is my real home," Dan answered.

"So you’re a junkie then," Shannon stated, not bothering to ask.

"Not at all, but it appears that you are."

Shannon blurted, "No!  Not that it is any of your business.  I just happen to be a person who enjoys recreational drugs."

"And, I just happen to be a person who enjoys living outside."

Shannon jumped to her feet as the first car of the night rolled by.  As she hopped in the back seat she scoffed, "Whatever, DAN."

"Good luck writing your story, darling," he called back.  "Good luck."

__________________________________________________________________________________

This piece is a work of fiction and was inspired by this week's the speakeasy writing prompt.  For the challenge we had to use the first line, "A flash sparked across the sky" and refer, in some way, to the photo above.  Click on the button below to read the prompt and the other beautiful writers who hang out there.  Thanks!

Retaliation

The smell was noticeable.  My nostrils recognized it immediately.  Stepping into Brad's apartment transported me directly back to college, to that part of campus that was as exhilarating as it was exhausting: the boy's dormitories.  His place reeked of testosterone mixed with feet and a hint of Old Spice Sport.  My suspicions were true.  He even smelled like a prick.

Two months ago, things were going great.  Brad and I saw each other nearly every day.  We met up with friends for drinks after work, we cuddled on the couch in the evenings, we even had dinner once with my parents.  Life was beautifully mundane, peacefully normal.

And then he gave me a key to his apartment.  According to my friend Cindy, I overreacted.  In my defense, I was perioding.  When Brad handed me my own key on a well worn UNC lanyard, I cried.  I swooned.  I supposed he was committed.  Clearly, I was wrong.  This is my first time here since.

Our nearly daily dates dwindled to one or two a week.  We still talked, texted and tweeted regularly, but it was mostly to realize our schedules would not line up.  Brad got really busy at work.  I got really busy at the business of backing up Brad.  Cindy kept harping on me to get to the bottom of all of the mess, but I was too blind to embrace her concern. 

And then, in my way, I just let life happen to me.  I let Brad pussy foot around his reasons for being absent.  I demanded no information.  I basically enabled his affair.  So what did I do the minute I saw him with his hand on her thigh at his favorite pub down the street?  I used the key to his apartment the way he had used me; behind his back and in order to have the upper hand.

Standing in the middle of Brad's living room I felt equally foolish and furious, embarrassed and entitled.  The combination must have been just the medicine I needed.  I began scanning the room for ways to make him feel the same way.  Holding the key between my thumb and forefinger, palm to the ceiling, I slowly walked around pointing at what I might take, break or both.

Lucky for him, his two most prized possessions, his phone and his penis, possibly in that order, were on his person.  Then, the invisible, vengeful eyes of the key landed on something new to me in the room: a gigantic, gleaming flat screen TV.  I am not sure how I overlooked in before.  But, the important point was that and I saw it now.

Like magnets the key and the television connected before I could give the attraction a second thought.  Careful not to shatter the screen, I etched a simple message into its surface, "YOUR KEY."  I then drew a two foot arrow pointing down to the top of the dusty piece-of-crap cabinet on which the television stood.  Tossing the key to land below the end of that liberating stroke, I waltzed out of Brad's life and let the door slam behind me.

Running down the stairs on a wave of ecstasy I hadn't felt in weeks, I dialed Cindy.

"Hey!!" she yelled over the bar's banter.

"I'm coming out," I unnecessarily shouted back. "Is that guy Nathan still meeting you all?"

"For real?!  I thought you were waiting for Brad to call."

"Game. Over.  It is my turn to play."

__________________________________________________________________________________

This piece is a work of fiction and was inspired by this week's the speakeasy writing prompt.  For the challenge we had to use the first line, "The smell was noticeable" and refer, in some way, to the photo above.  Click on the button below to read the prompt and the other beautiful writers who hang out there.  Thanks!

Sticky

The bottle was nearly empty.  Cindy was stunned.  The innocent carpet picnic she had orchestrated for her boys to bridge the evening hours had turned into a living room massacre of sorts.  No one had been harmed, save the cat whose meows rang of a personal assault.  The only creature daring to move, she feverishly licked her fur.  The three tow-headed tots remained silent and stiff on the floor, their bright, blue eyes wide.  It was the youngest who spoke first, his voice squeaking as he pointed, "Mommy, you shook dippy all over the ceiling!"

Still clutching the bottle, its cap long gone, Cindy gazed upwards, her mouth gaping.  It was then that a drop of ketchup detached from one of the many strings that had formed and hit Cindy square on her button nose.  Scrunching her face, she barely resisted the urge to scream.  Redirecting her emotions, she extended her other hand palm side up and calmly quipped, "Whelp, this is interesting weather we are having.  Good thing it's chicken fingers for dinner!"

Relieved by her reaction, the three boys immediately burst into giggles of delight.  Cindy followed suit and was soon laughing so hard she had to sit down.  Ketchup dappled the sofa and now the back of her jeans.  It clung to the walls and it hung from the door frames.  It stuck in the boy's hair and even to their necks.  Ketchup streaked the curtains and across the television screen.  Every glimpse of the stuff shook Cindy all the more, her body rocking and reverberating with hysteria.

Tears streaming down her face, she motioned for the boys to eat, their plates already covered in the desired condiment.  They happily complied and she plopped down with them after catching her breath.  Cindy speckled the rest of the meal with periodic sighs of disbelief, her mind, like the living room, clouded with a bittersweet aroma.   

Hours later, the boys long asleep after leaving an orange ring around the tub, Cindy's husband returned home from overtime.  "Hey babe, it's me!  I brought your favorite!"  Reaching into a grease-stained white paper bag, he proudly lifted out a warm package of crispy, golden fries for Cindy to behold.  "I'll go get the ketchup."

"Sweetie, wait."  Cindy held up her hand.  "They look delicious, but let's just leave them plain tonight." 

____________________________________________________________________________________

This piece is a work of fiction and was inspired by this week's the speakeasy writing prompt.  Click on the button below to read the prompt and the other beautiful writers who hang out there.  Thanks!
 

    

Pre-teen Skateland

I threw it on the ground and burst into tears.  My so-called friends skated away, giggling and gossiping.  Infuriated by what they had done, I had no idea what to do next.  I watched them head to the well-lit snack area while I retrieved the crumpled note.  Alone, I reread his poor penmanship, scribbled in the same sparkly purple ink I had used, "Jamie, thank you for asking me to skate the next couples skate with you.  Love, Kevin."

The note was supposed to read, "Love, Bryce."  It had taken me most of the school year to get up the nerve to ask my friends to ask him to skate with me.  I should have done it myself, like Mom had said.  But no, I asked my stupid friends to do it and they asked Kevin instead.  My tears tasted bitter on my lips.  There was no way I was going to skate with him.  He smelled like cooked eggs.  He wore the same navy blue sweatpants everyday to school.  His teeth overlapped like my brother's nasty mummy mask and I was pretty sure this was his third year in seventh grade.

As I finished contemplating the note, a slower song began to play and the dreaded couples skate was announced.  As pairs of kids scurried onto the glossy wooden floor, I hightailed it to the other end of the rink to hide in the bathroom.  I really had no idea what I would do if Kevin came looking for me.  Once in the safety zone, I jammed my hand into the pocket of my jeans for a quarter.  Depositing it into the machine, I turned the crank and let the gumball roll heavy into my palm.

Methodical chewing calmed me down.  Mom called gum my guilty pleasure, whatever that meant.  After a few deep breaths, I reasoned that the open session was almost over and I could soon leave this disaster behind.  I skated over to the open doorway and peaked out over the rink.  The painted concrete block walls felt cool beneath my sweaty palms.  The couples skate was in full swing and I caught a glimpse of Bryce with his arm around some eighth grader with long blond hair.

Then I saw Kevin.  He was sitting by himself on the bench where I had waited for my friends.  The sweeping and swirling lights of the darkened rink dappled him with the outlines of stars and hearts.  He was as far away from me as he could have been in that place, but I could tell by the way he was sitting that he was sad.  My friends had succeeded in ruining his day, too.  I wondered if they had even thought about that. 

When it was all finally over, I somehow managed to avoid the gaggle of girls, Kevin and Bryce on my way to meet Mom.  Our car was already parked at the curb when I walked outside and I slid sulking into the backseat.  I slammed the door behind me.  Mom turned down the radio.

"Did you not have a good time skating today, honey?"

"You wouldn't understand."

Without pestering me for more, she simply rummaged through her bag and reached behind her to hand me a piece of gum.  A wave of emotion washed over me.  I didn't know what to do.  So, I threw it on the ground and burst into tears.
    
 

Self-Help

A hush descended over the room.  Anxiety rose up in her throat.  The introductions started.  If only she had had time for a drink.  She twisted her wrist toward her and looked down to check the time.  The floral pattern of the commercial-grade hotel carpet turned slowly in a blur below her.

The banquet hall was packed with people starving for her words.  She could see them through the narrow break in the partition; shuffling their chairs and napkins, scurrying at the last minute to return to their seats.  It was the same in every big city, every small town.  She was the reason this desperate bunch was in this ridiculous room and they did not want to miss one delicious bit.

In 57 minutes and 26 seconds, she would convince them that they should start over and the time to do so was now.  They simply needed to throw off their old prescriptions for new rose-colored glasses.  In five easy steps they would envision themselves as freshly-polished vessels, newly empty to receive all the positive pieces her plan had to offer.

Mulling over the program made her nauseous.  What kind of hotel bar does not serve alcohol until four o'clock?  Devon was going to have to handle the helicoptering hoard himself.  There was no way she was going to sit in the lobby and sign books today.  There was an entire case of autographed copies in the van.  In 57 minutes and 26 seconds, she was going to be upstairs in her room, manhandling the mini bar.

The lights dimmed over the room.  Adrenaline pulsed through her body.  The introductions ended.  If only she had had time for a drink.  She shifted her gaze toward the steps on the riser.  "Ladies and gentleman, it is with great honor and exceeding pleasure that I bring to you this afternoon, the one, the only, our Maven of Motivation, Savannah Joy Copeland!"


______________________________________________________________________________________

This piece is a work of fiction and was inspired by this week's the speakeasy writing prompt.  Click on the button below to read the prompt and the other talented writers who hang out there.  Thanks!

Her Idea Book

"The magic was all in the finishing touches."

I barely acknowledged her breathy proclamation before she was off and running yet again.

"Like, for instance, they didn't just use generic tea lights, but pale pink ones to coordinate with the rest of the table's palate.  I never would have thought shades of gray and pink would hold up, but it was really sweet.  Even the chargers, which looked just like marble, had these subtle pink veins running through them."

Clearly, my sister had enjoyed herself last night, but I couldn't care less about the highlights she shared.  She didn't even come close to answering the questions I would have offered: Did they write their own vows?  Which readings did they choose?  Were there toasts?  Were there tears?  I returned to my book as Annabelle's swift back and forth around the bed shadowed my periphery.

"Oh, and the linens, the linens were gorgeous.  They must have had thin iridescent thread incorporated into them, or something.  They shimmered in the candlelight."

She paused, either to place her personals with more precision or to assess her appearance in the large mirror that rested on the floor.  The soft slam of the dresser drawer confirmed the former.  I kept my eyes on the words in my lap and merely flexed my toes to crack them. 

"And, get this, the soaps in the bathroom looked like marble, too.  Of course, those were more for decoration.  There were still automatic dispensers, but they made up these cute little baskets with the soaps and pink and gray towels and such.  They were kind of like centerpieces for the sink counters, you know?  Look, I took a picture of one with my phone for my idea book."

At this I looked up, sat up and opened my mouth to speak.  Annabelle beat me to it. 

"I can't believe I forgot to tell you!  I started an idea book, you know, for when I start to plan my wedding, our wedding, mine and Todd's.  I know he probably won't propose until next summer or maybe Christmas, but I get ideas all of the time and I want to make sure I don't forget."

I stared at my sister.  Her hair was back in a tight, neat ponytail that barely grazed the bright, white collar of her shirt, its crisp sleeves folded up and over her black, cable knit sweater with a perfect crease.  She was so organized, so together and so hopelessly clueless I couldn't help but continue to stare.

"What?  What is it?  Do you want to see the book?  I have it right here."

Annabelle turned to retrieve the book from its shelf.  "I have it all divided up into sections, see?  I even have one called 'Finishing Touches'."

I am not exactly sure what broke me, but I shattered like glass.  "Anna!  For Christ's sake, what is wrong with you?  You are so over the top, so freaking over the top it makes me sick.  Everyday you yammer on and on about all this superficial, sappy shit to hide the fact that you have no substance.  Stop wasting your life.  Todd doesn't love you and he never, not in a million years, will ever marry you!  God!"   

I fumbled with my own book to find the page I had lost.  As I brushed the hair out of my eyes to resume reading, I saw my sister wrinkle her face to wrangle her words of retort.  I decided this would finish her, "Everyone knows he's only with you because you're a slut."

And it did.  But the result, well, the result was far from magical.



______________________________________________________________________________________

This piece is a work of fiction and was inspired by this week's the speakeasy writing prompt.  Click on the button below to read the prompt and the other beautiful writers who hang out there.  Thanks!

His Entire Life

Blowing bubbles in milk always feels good. Gabriel blows bubbles in his milk after every swim meet. At the diner, his mom orders coffee, his dad orders tea, his sister orders a Coke and he asks the waitress for chocolate milk. Gabriel loves chocolate milk almost as much as he loves swim meets. Swimming always feels best.

As he waits for his family to choose, Gabriel decides that he has been swimming forever. His mom says he and Leah both learned together 8 years ago in Florida when he was 12 and she was 6, but he is certain he has always known how. He can't remember a time when he didn't. 

In the summers, Gabriel loves prancing around on the warm concrete making wet prints with his toes. He wishes they could go to the swim club every day. It is his favorite place to swim. The water is so blue and so cold. He likes blowing bubbles in the water, too.  After lunch, Gabriel heads to the snack bar for "one cherry snow cone, please." He likes the workers there. They never need him to repeat his words like the diner workers do, and always compliment him on his bright pink swim shirt.

During school, Gabriel's mom takes him to the Y for open swim on Saturdays. He doesn't like this as much because Leah won't come with them and there are no snack bar workers to watch. The water still makes him feel free and powerful, but it is warm. He likes the cold water best.  After swimming, Gabriel heads to the locker room to get changed. He loves pretending the rough carpet is the outdoor pool deck. Walking on tip toes, he leaves patterns of dark gray spots on the light gray floor.

Gabriel is a real, grown up swimmer. He has been practicing hard his entire life. He isn't as fast as Leah, yet, but he made the high school swim team with her this year. Coach Pearson always tells Gabriel he is getting better at staying in his lane and that he is the best at smiling.

Gabriel drinks his chocolate milk and stares at his family staring at their menus.  Gabriel realizes that, more than swimming or chocolate milk or anything, he likes knowing. He likes knowing that when the waitress comes back he will ask her for pancakes with cherry topping and whipped cream.  Knowing feels the very best.




___________________________________________________________________________________

This piece is a work of fiction and was inspired by this week's The Speakeasy writing prompt.  Click on the button below to read the prompt and the other beautiful writers who hang out there.  Thanks!